


Fragility: A Sherlock Holmes fanfiction

by LAAdolf



Category: Sherlock Holmes 2009
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-07
Updated: 2010-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:45:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LAAdolf/pseuds/LAAdolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of "missing scenes" for "Sherlock Holmes 2009" exploring events from the film as viewed and influenced by Mycroft Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Plea for Assistance

Fragility

 L.A. Adolf

“I should like to horsewhip you.” Mycroft Holmes looked at me across the expanse of his Whitehall desk. “But instead, I shall recommend my brother’s services to Sir Thomas. He should be released within the hour.”

The elder Holmes scribbled a note onto a piece of letterhead he removed from drawer of his desk, then rang for his assistant, who bustled in and out of the office with quick and quiet efficiency.

I sagged in relief against the back of my chair, my first concern attended to, that Sherlock Holmes be released from the prison yard we were both thrown into after the unfortunate incident at the docks the evening before. It was only then that I truly heard the words that had preceded his promise of action.

 That Mycroft could be a dangerous man if sufficiently stirred from his inertia, I had no doubt. What I had done to deserve such consideration as a beating by means of a horsewhip, I could not, in the moment, fathom.

 With the perspicacity I knew so well in his brother, Mycroft seemed to have sensed my confusion for he continued after a silent moment. “Sherlock depends upon you. And you abandon him. I thought better of you, doctor.”

At first, I thought he meant that I had abandoned him to the prison yard. But looking into the eyes so like his brother’s, I understood that was not his meaning at all. He was speaking of the end of the partnership, the fact I would no longer be accompanying Holmes on cases. That I was to marry and move out of Baker Street.

 “Your assertion that your brother is dependent on anyone other than himself does you no credit, sir and demeans the strongest and most capable man I know.” I replied, resenting in equal parts the condescension towards both Holmes and myself. I stood up, spine stiff and straight.

Something seemed to flicker and die in those sharp eyes. “Your loyalty to Sherlock does you credit. However, if that is your soul deep belief, Doctor, you do not see the flaw in your logic and I cannot hope to enlighten you. Good day.”

 A part of myself wanted to stand my ground and debate the issue, to proclaim my faith in my beloved friend and my freedom to pursue my own happiness. But I had been dismissed.

 And the larger part of me knew that Mycroft was absolutely right.

 

***


	2. A Spider in His Web

***

Mycroft Holmes rubbed the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to ease the pain and pressure building in his head.

Sir Thomas, dead.  Drowned in his bath some time in the night.

Sherlock missing.

That damnable Watson off setting up house for his beloved.  Or some such rot.

Mycroft had work to accomplish. Important government work especially critical in the face of whatever Blackwood was up to.  Sherlock was rather vital to that devil being caught and brought to justice.  And Dr. John Watson was concerning himself with lace doilies and tea cozies! 

It was really insupportable.  The man had no sense of priorities.  This was exactly why emotional entanglements were anathema to the elder Holmes brother; they fogged the sensibilities, made the normally steadfast inconstant, reduced vows of fidelity and duty to so much trash to be consigned to the dustbin, forgotten in the surge of the mating urge.

Bah.  Watson—in whose care he’d entrusted his mercurial younger sibling some few years before, to the flourishing of both Holmes brother’s fortunes –a supreme disappointment.  Nothing to be done about it now, except to be there, in the end, to pick up the pieces and put Sherlock back together when the time came.

Mycroft’s eyes dropped to a sheet of foolscap lying atop the blotter in the middle of his desk. Intelligence gleaned just a few minutes in advance of the alarm over Rotheram’s murder, he’d nearly forgotten about it. 

Irene Adler in London. And associated in some way with this Moriarty whose reputation grew inexorably like a tumor at the heart of London’s underworld.

Adler, who harbored a foolish obsession for Sherlock, unbelieving that there existed a man on the face of the earth impervious to her beauty and superficial charms.  Mycroft had considered both London at large and his brother in particular the better for her marriage to the banker, and their return to the land of her birth. 

And now, she was back and Sherlock was missing.

He remembered she took rooms at the Grand when in London, and had in her last incursion into the city, attempted to use his brother as a means by which to incite matrimony in her banker prospect, presumably by playing on the lout’s jealousy.  That had been a catastrophe narrowly avoided.

But Adler was nothing if not a creature of habit, and while she possessed some small wit that set her above the rest of her gender, he had a flash of insight of where Sherlock might be found—and an intuition that she would probably carry through this time on the plan previously thwarted.  If only to prove to herself that it would have worked.

Mycroft rang for his assistant.

**

His headache had returned.

Something really should be done about Irene Adler and would be, in time and the correct order of things, if Mycroft had anything to say about it.

Sherlock was found.  A maid sent to clean Adler’s rooms upon her departing the Grand, had found his brother, nude and shackled to the bed frame.  Mycroft had been correct, Adler had recreated her original tableau, although must needs sans her affianced swain.

Sherlock, with his usual social grace, so mortifying the poor girl that Scotland Yard had been called in on a case of gross indecency.

Fortunately Mycroft’s own line of inquiry had providentially collided with the Yard summons.  Having a man such as Constable Clark in his arsenal of stalwart agents had very quickly averted a scandal and put Sherlock back on the scent.  

He really should see to it that Clark was promoted, but the man was every so much more useful as a Constable, and the man genuinely seemed to enjoy his charge of keeping a weather eye open in Sherlock’s direction.  His discretion and sense of responsibility as regarded Mycroft’s brother made him quite invaluable.  What with Watson proving such a disappointment…Clark was becoming ever more indispensible.

That Sherlock held Clark high regard was in itself significant. There were few men on the planet, other than John Hamish Watson who could lay claim to that distinction.

Mycroft’s headache vanished, and he smiled.

Therein might lie the ultimate solution…

***


	3. The Blackest Night

***

The wild eyed revenant that appeared on the stoop of my quarters in no way resembled my brother.

Sherlock smelled of fire, explosives and smoke, and the hands that grasped my arms were not the strong fingered limbs of my sibling, but the trembling appendages of a man on his last reserves of energy and sanity. 

He was babbling, as though in the throes of delirium.  I hauled him bodily into my apartments, through the foyer to my study and into my favorite overstuffed chair, leaving him only as long as it took to retrieve a decanter of brandy and a glass.

“Brother! Are you hurt?”  I cried, tipping a small amount of the spirits into his mouth, then running cursory hands over his body, searching for injuries, wondering what tea party the estimable Dr. Watson might be at now and how Sherlock had gotten into this state.  His face, smudged with soot, was as haunted and distraught as I’ve ever had the misfortune to see it.  Not even when our mother died, had such a look of horrified loss so transformed his fine-boned features.

“No…Watson…” he gasped, chest heaving, voice a pitiable  croak, which failed him completely at the mention of his erstwhile friend and Boswell.

“Where is he? Meeting the in-laws? I’ll call him right round if you’ll have no other attend you… let me --    ”

“_NO!”  _Far removed as it was from giving the impression of being no voice at all, the agonized roar that erupted from that throat startled and chilled me.  And paralyzed me where I stood.

 “Nine Elms. Slaughterhouse…Explosion. Blackwood…” The voice grew weak and thick with distress again.  “I’ve… killed Watson…”  Sherlock folded in on himself, threatening to topple forward and out of the chair.  It was only by the expeditious application of my arms about his torso that I managed to arrest his forward momentum.  A ragged sob tore from deep in the breast of my beloved brother—whom I had not seen surrender to tears since he was four years old.

Now, as I had then, I placed a palm on either side of Sherlock’s face, bringing his eyes  to mine, capturing attention that attempted to skitter away almost as soon as it was engaged.  “Listen to me, Sherlock.  Hear me…”  I paused, affecting a tone of voice I’d long ago cultivated, pitched to soothe my high strung sibling.  “A deep breath, that’s it…now, calmly, rationally, tell me what has happened to Watson.”

The words rushed from his mouth at first, slowing eventually to a more controlled beat, though the distress underlying them was still palpable.  The story emerged-albeit in fits and starts-- of following the trail of Blackwood’s interests to a slaughterhouse in Nine Elms; Adler—that damnable woman again! -- used as a pawn:  Blackwood escaping in the confusion, Watson in pursuit.  A trip wire, explosions and fire…

I’d sent word to Constable Clark to find and warn my brother that a warrant for his arrest was in process—through the jumbled narrative I was able to discern that the warning had been given…and that Clark had sent him on his way with assurances that Watson was alive.

“…but I saw the explosion, brother, he could not have survived the inferno.  He did not wish to follow me, I tricked him… again.  I’ve k-kil -- ”

“Stop!  What are the first principles, Sherlock?”  I parroted our Father, sternly but not without compassion.  If Watson was dead, I’d have to begin rebuilding my brother now if I were to be able to salvage his soul at all.

 “Facts before conclusions, remember? Look for the evidence, let the conclusions come forth, rationally.  Did you see his dead body?”

“No.  I saw him and heard him—he’d thrown his hand out to me, to halt me.  Then the explosion... not one, but several…”

“You were thrown back by the force of it yourself, were you not?  Is it possible that Watson was, as well?  Thrown well clear of those blasts that came after?”

“P-pos-sible.  I was blinded, deafened, Irene had followed me.  I was forced back by the explosions, I went to see to her…”

If indeed Watson was dead, and Adler should prove another reason for Sherlock to flay himself alive for the loss…I would strangle the harpy with my own two hands.  I could not help but wonder how coincidental it was that she was offered up, sacrificial lamb by Blackwood himself, with her own complicity or at the very least, through her own guilt. And Moriarty’s.

“Your attention was diverted elsewhere.  Even at these hours, certainly the wharf was not deserted, a watchman might have pulled Watson to safety, might he not?  Someone alerted The Yard after all…”

A spark of reason entered the haunted brown eyes that were so like our mother’s.  “Clark said he was alive.”

“Have you ever had occasion to doubt Constable Clark’s word?  Has he ever shielded you from unpleasant truths?”

“I would…” Sherlock began, control once again asserting itself, “know. Clarky has an honest Irish face.”

“Indeed you would know. You are a keen observer, brother mine, which is why Father always wanted you present when he was trying to ferret the truth from misbehaving staff.  Remember?”

A small, wry smile curled the corners of Sherlock’s mouth.  Even as a child his brother had enjoyed being the center of attention as he weighed, with the gravity of the most anointed judge, the truth being told by felonious footmen and scurrilous scullery maids.

“While not conclusive, I would say that the clues lead to the probability that Dr. Watson is alive. Perhaps hurt, but alive, as Clark assured you.  Now, if I could but leave you for a few moments, I can make inquiries. If injured, he will have been transported to a hospital.  If unscathed—as unlikely as that may seem, he might already be back at Baker Street or at the house of his fiancée’s family.  Will you be all right here, for a moment?”

My brother nodded.  The adrenaline was draining from his system with the abatement of his first panic, leaving lassitude in its wake.  His lids grew heavy over the eyes that were even now losing some of their torment.

I reached for the shawl that adorned the back of a nearby settee, regretting I had not thought to seat him there first.  I tucked it about his shoulders, then set about making inquiries.

***

After a few hours sleep, and availing himself of the store of theatrical appurtenances and disguises he kept in the back of one of my closets in the case of emergencies such as these, my brother left my apartments and made his way to the Veteran’s Hospital. Against my advice, I might also add.

 My objections had been neither strenuous nor heartfelt.  Assured through channels that Watson, while wounded, was in no way mortally affected, I knew that my brother could not move forward until he saw the evidence of it with his own eyes.  And the very survival of the government might indeed rely upon his ability to maintain forward momentum in the apprehension of Blackwood.

And within those eyes, I’d  seen something else. My brother, against all expectations, was finding his way to a growing realization of a fundamental truth.

 That the only life he could bear to risk was his own.  And toward that end, he was beginning the process of letting go.

***


	4. Fragility: A Presentiment of Things to Come

Fragility

Chapter 4: A Presentiment of Things To Come

L.A.Adolf

 

***

I drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like days, but I would later find out was only a matter of hours.

I was not at ease; any respite I received was short-lived, and any repose fleeting.

In my mind’s eye, I relived, again and again, those fateful few minutes on the wharf at Nine Elms, my horror that I had blundered against a trip wire, my absolute terror that Holmes, following fast behind me, would be caught in the fiery hell that became mine in those few seconds.  The world had exploded, white, hot and I had not seen Holmes again.

My traumatized, confused mind convinced me that Holmes had been killed in the explosion, dying horribly before my eyes. Images from my days in the army mixing their past reality with the present had me gasping awake and calling for him voicelessly, until at some point, a subcutaneous injection of morphia wiped all distress away and I fell into a stupor.  Still I could not find my ease.  I existed in a twilight sleep, intensely aware of all that went on about me, but too lethargic with the drug and my own sense of bleak failure to respond to outside stimuli.

Mary was there, off and on.  I could hear her voice and feel the touch of her hand on mine, then on my face. She murmured soft words of comfort, but I could not be consoled—not when Holmes was gone, lost forever in my feverish hallucinations. 

Ward attendants came and went.  I could hear Mary being informed that my surgeon would be delayed, at the same time assured that I was in no danger and that she should go home and rest, come back when a new day dawned.  It seemed for a time that she had heeded the counsel, her presence was gone from the room, her understated but very real distress was removed from my orbit. The room fell silent, a quietude that brought less of reprieve and more of oppression.

I wanted to sob out my grief and guilt, but the drug in my system blocked even that small release.

A gentle hand settled itself on my arm, well clear of the shrapnel wounds in my shoulder.  Quite unexpectedly, the contact had the almost immediate effect of settling me, relief, profound and heartfelt, flooded my being. 

I knew that touch…

“Rest easy, old boy,” a voice whispered. “I will make this right.  You will be well and safe with your beloved.”  The hand moved up my arm, inspecting the wounds with utmost tenderness, a cooling cloth pressed to the heat generating there, another briefly laid across my brow.

I sighed.

_Holmes!_  But it could not _be_…

And yet I had the evidence of my senses.  His voice, calming me to the depths of my soul, his touch, his scent, all real in a way that no phantasm from a fever dream could be.  I wanted to rouse myself, confirm visually what every other sensation informed me was true:  that Holmes _was_ alive and _with_ me.  I felt that if I could just concentrate, I could make my physical self fall in line with my wishes.

I felt the prick of a small needle, and the stupor renewed.   I heard Holmes murmur: “A sixth of a grain of morphia, it will help you rest and ease the pain.  You deserve a peaceful private life, well out of harm’s way.  And you shall have it, my dearest Watson.”

The voice of my friend was gone in the next moment, as with preternatural certitude I sensed that Mary had returned to the room.  “The surgeon will be along soon,” a voice that recalled Holmes, but with a heavy German accent, spoke from the spot where my dearest friend had stood.  There was a final touch, and he moved away.

I wanted to cry out and call him back but the lethargy deepened, and this time, blackness enveloped me with healing arms. 

This time I could accept the surcease the drug offered.

Holmes was _alive_.

**

A voice of a different timbre roused me from my slumber some amorphous span of time later.

“Awake, Doctor. Sherlock needs you, compass and lode-stone to his star that you are.”

My eyes cracked open to the dim light of dawn and the hulking figure that stood on the far side of my bed, in my line of sight. 

Mycroft Holmes.

“The treatment of our distinguished veterans is shameful. Your surgeon has still not made an appearance,” he was saying, matter-of-factly, as though reporting the weather outside or time of day, yet beneath that tone I perceived a disquieting unease.  “Your fiancée has gone in search of him.  She has grit, your Mary.” That last was spoken with something close to—but not quite –admiration.

Our last meeting had been something less than congenial as I recalled, my mind clearing rapidly now, the ache in my shoulder serving as sharp counterpoint to any lingering lethargy.  But that didn’t matter, he’d mentioned Holmes—_my Holmes_—needing me.  I rose up on my right elbow.

“Your brother needs me, you said,” my voice was little more than a croak. “Where is he, is he all right?!”

Mycroft surprised me by handing me a glass of water, waiting until I’d taken a few sips into my dry mouth, hand hovering until I pushed the receptacle back into his grasp.

“Gone to ground. A warrant has been issued for his arrest,” he said.

My heart clenched.  “Arrest? What charges? On whose authority?”

“Calm, Doctor, be calm. That is of less significance in this moment than the fact that I would ask a favor of you, not for myself, but for the sake of Sherlock.”

“Come to your point.” I stated, growing a bit impatient with his equable, formal outward demeanor—especially when the perception of tightly controlled anxiety in the other man continued to become stronger.

“As you know, my brother is not unfeeling.  Rather he feels too much, and so must armor himself against a world with no lack of appetite for mauling the empathetic.  Second only to his sense of empathy is his capacity for guilt.  Our mother never quite recovered from his birth, you know, and even as a very small child, he bore the responsibility of her debility within his soul.  Her death devastated him in a fundamental way because he held himself as the cause of her shortened life.  I’ve often mused that his passion for justice was born in the fires of his own culpability for circumstances that truly, were not his to control.  That overweening sense of remorse has reared its ugly head once again, and I fear the consequences of its return.”

In spite of his ignoring my request that he come to his meaning, I was learning more about my dearest friend in five minutes from his brother than I had ever learned from Holmes himself in the nearly ten years of our association.  I would allow him his own pace, however much I chafed for him to get on with it.

I pulled myself into a sitting position, never once taking my eyes from Mycroft. My shoulder throbbed mercilessly, but I mustered my strength to ignore the pain.

“Because of this?” I gestured towards my wounds. Mycroft inclined his head slightly.

“If you could but find your way clear to see out the remainder of the Blackwood case with Sherlock…keep him steady on his course--you would have my eternal gratitude. I will be accountable for my brother after that, and you will be free to begin your married life free of encumbrance.”

I was speechless. Partly from surprise that Mycroft was being conciliatory and partly from anger that he thought he even had to promise what amounted to a discharge from my obligations to gain my cooperation.  Holmes had never been an **_obligation_** in the sense that Mycroft seemed to imply.

“His Irregulars tell me he tasked them with procuring-- through the eldest alumnus of their number--a rather unsettling amount, from several different chemists -- of his usual… solution.  Plus additional stores of morphine,” Mycroft continued at my silence.  “Time might be of the essence.”

It had never occurred to me that amongst all of the elder Holmes’ many talents; he possessed the gift of understatement. I threw back the bedclothes. 

“If you could hand me a mirror. And push that tray of instruments closer?  I’ll need a change of clothing, perhaps one of the Irregulars could prevail upon Mrs. Hudson?”

“Already provided for,” The other man noted, gesturing to the chair beside him, then moving to provide me with the items I requested.

He’d needed not say as much as he had, though I was grateful beyond measure for his confidences. Mycroft’s appearance in my hospital room, a singular occurrence from a man who seldom bestirred himself from the Diogenes Club or his office in Whitehall, alone would have awakened my alarm.

What he’d told me had me preparing to locate Holmes with all due haste, sweeping aside the objections of both Mary and the surgeon she had finally managed to locate and latch on to.

Somewhere in the chaos, Mycroft vanished, gone as stealthily as he’d come.

****

 


	5. Fragility: The Judas-Hole

Fragility: The Judas-Hole

L.A. Adolf

 

Skulking about in a tiny room adjoining my brother’s favorite bolt hole above the Punchbowl should be beneath my dignity. I have important obligations to the Crown, I should be at my desk in Whitehall –never mind it is the middle of the night –tending to them. 

But I have obligations far older as well. Fraternal, almost filial obligations.  And not merely _obligations.  _Insofar as I am capable of loving anyone, I do love my brother, and it is only on his behalf that I would so drastically alter my routine, upset my self-imposed solitude and subject myself to confinement in a structure little more than a closet.

I’d come directly from Watson’s hospital room to Sherlock’s favorite hiding place above the tavern, to find some of my worst fears realized.  My brother had been sprawled in the middle of an esoteric symbol sketched into the floor board with chalk, outlined in melted wax, deep in the grip of whatever drugs he’d imbibed.  Amongst the detritus in the room I’d found not only the two pharmaceuticals I’d warned Watson about, but several other substances, one known to induce shamanistic visions— the late Sir Richard Francis Burton had written of its use amongst the Amazonian tribes.

I’d taken him in my arms; he’d been so deeply insensible that if he was aware of me at all, it was not as myself. He’d called for Watson and I’d sent up a plea to whatever deities might truly exist—if any—that the good doctor would be on his way sooner rather than later.  The cry was most plaintive, even as chemically induced hallucinations claimed and pulled him farther away from reality,  he was voicing apologies to Watson for not only recent events but every past occurrence in which the doctor had been at any risk whatsoever, however slight.

If had not already understood the depth of my sibling’s affections for friend Watson, I would have been enlightened in those moments. As it was, something died within my breast-- a small thing called “hope”-- that Sherlock had any likelihood at all of surviving the marriage and removal from his direct orbit, of one John H. Watson.

I pride myself on steady nerves and keeping my head in a crisis. It was only those two qualities that kept me sane as I waited for word from the Irregular sentry that I’d posted in the street to warn me of Watson’s coming.  Sherlock was barely breathing, raving one minute and immobile as death the next.  However much I wanted Sherlock to get to the bottom of Blackwood’s plot and thwart it, it could not be at the cost of his life, or worse, of his sanity. The evil Lord had been too cunning by half in his recognition of my brother’s Persian Flaw and his playing upon it.

I would gladly put the noose around the blackguard’s neck myself, should the chance avail. And if it did not, I would have to arrange it.

“Mr. ‘olmes ain’t dead is he, guv’nor?”  The small voice had startled me out of my despondent musings.  I looked up to see the street Arab taking in the view of myself with my brother clutched in my arms, eyes big as tea cup saucers and complexion pale as fine porcelain beneath the dirt and smudges.

“No lad.  Is Dr Watson near?”

“Yes sir.  ‘e’s comin’ down the alley now, sir. I come’d to tell you just like you asked.” 

“Good lad, now here,” I tossed him a coin—it might have been a farthing, it might have been a crown for all I knew or cared in that instant, “make yourself scarce.”

The boy did as he was bid.  And as much as it hurt me to do so, I laid my brother back down on the floor and with all due haste, secreted myself away next door.

**

I had a small peephole through which I could monitor my brother during the long minutes it took the wounded doctor to negotiate the stairs up from the public area.  Once Watson entered, I might have withdrawn my gaze, resorted to my aural sense only, but the look of ghastly shock and horror on the already pinched features kept my attention riveted.

Any physical pain Watson may have been feeling seemed instantly forgotten as, transfixed for a mere moment, he threw himself across the room and down at my brother’s side with such speed and purpose, had I but blinked at the wrong moment, he would have been perceived as being abruptly and magically displaced from one spot to the other. 

“**_Holmes_**!”  The cry that tore from those vocal chords was one of pure animal agony.   Truly I could think of nothing more appropriate to its classification than the mourning wail of a wild animal over the corpse of its mate.

Whipping off the sling that had immobilized his injured arm,  he gathered my unconscious sibling up in his arms, pressing the lolling head against his chest, rocking back and forth in that most primal of bodily movements that imparts comfort both to the giver and the recipient.

It seems I had underestimated the good Doctor once again, and a small flicker of optimism began to flourish in the vicinity of my heart.

_Was the attachment not as one-sided as I had always believed?_

The medical man within the emotional being asserted itself, and quickly, efficiently, Watson checked breathing, pulse, pupil dilation.  Then once again the feeling man returned.

“You bloody idiot,” the doctor breathed, but there was neither heat nor accusation in the words, instead the deepest concern leavened by a tangible affection could be discerned.  “I will kill Blackwood myself for this.” 

That last was said with such vehemence, that I found myself forced to forever alter my opinion of John Watson. 

My brother moaned, seeming to emerge from the quiet phase of his trance into the ranting and restless stage with no change in outward awareness.

“Shhhh, there now.  I’m here. Whatever you are seeing, where ever you are, I am here and I have you, you are safe…”

Watson – quite to my amazement – was crooning to my brother, smoothing the wild hair back from a fevered brow with a tenderness I’d not seen since my sibling had been a babe in arms and being soothed through a bout with colic by our mother.

And there were tears.  They fell silently, shed without audible sobbing, and in no way effected the picture of masculinity that Watson always projected, and yet they were as heartfelt, probably more so, than any feminine weeping I’d ever had the misfortune to witness.

If his emotions were engaged to this extent…_why _was he so intent on shouldering the mantle of respectability and marrying Miss Morstan?

My own eyes burned. I had to look away.

Thus distracted, I completely missed the quick footed ascent of a distaff presence coming up the stairwell.  Both Watson and I were similarly startled when Irene Adler, arrayed in the latest Parisian fashion, burst through the door of Sherlock’s hiding place, a newspaper thrust before her, its headline trumpeting news of my brother’s arrest warrant.

I’d thought her well on her way out of town, as Sherlock had reported to me  he’d warned her again to undertake to do.  Her _haute couture_ outfit was of the travelling variety it was true, but she should have been halfway across the English Channel by now.

_The broody shrew!_  What **was** it going to take to be rid of her?

With her arrival, the atmosphere in the adjoining room changed, as her own, probably well intentioned concern caused her to fall to her knees next to Sherlock and Watson.  To her credit, she was soon aiding in the removal of my sibling from the floor to the cot in the room and the pair set seriously on doing their utmost to insure that my brother would survive the few hours left until dawn.

I felt I could take my leave at this point, and that the time was ripe to do so, the other room’s occupants being so focused on the object of their mutual concern as to not be aware of any small noise I might make.  I ached for the comfort of my club, or the routine of my office.  But, instead I would track down my little Irregular and set him upon following Miss Adler when she finally quit these rooms.

Time was well overdue for The Woman and I to have a private chat.

***


	6. Fragility: The Viper In Her Nest

**Fragility: The Viper In Her Nest**

L.A. Adolf

The hotel wasn’t the Grand, more's the pity, but she couldn’t really return there after leaving Sherlock as she had, and well, never mind  the bit about not quite getting around to settling the bill…

Irene Adler proceeded through her temporary lodging, dropping clothing as she went. If she was to meet up again with Sherlock and Watson, thereby be led to where Blackwood’s infernal machine was to be found, she had only a few minutes to change and be back on her way. Moriarty was not of a forgiving nature when it came to womanly tardiness and he had given her to understand the consequences of her failure to provide what he required, were not to be paid by her alone.

“I distinctly remember paying a king’s ransom for you to marry your banker and leave England.  It would appear, Madam, that you owe me a refund.”

Irene, stripped down to her small clothes, froze in mid-step.

Trying to convey an impression of idle interest to counteract the startlement she genuinely felt, she turned in the direction of the deep, rumbling voice.

Mycroft Holmes sat in the shadows of the dressing area, looking at her with eyes that were like Sherlock’s but at the same time, so very different.  Where one retained a spark of irresistible-- if well hidden --guileless innocence that engaged all her womanly instincts, the other held a capacity for malice that even Moriarty would be hard pressed to match.

Irene Adler prided herself in being the equal in intelligence, wit and courage of any man and in fear of none, but all the same she could not suppress the shudder that coursed through her body under that baleful glare.

However, she had been and was an actress and she could feign insouciance as well as The Divine Sarah Bernhardt.  Irene tossed her head and moved behind the screen where she’d left the valise that held her boys’ clothes. 

“You did not specify the term of the marriage, nor did you pay me enough to make my avoidance of London permanent. I’d say, you have gotten _precisely_ what you paid for.  Besides, I love Sherlock; you cannot dictate my feelings by the size of your pocketbook.”

The elder Holmes’ laughter was a harsh bark. “Spare me your dissembling; your acting skills are nearly as weak as your operatic voice. You have never loved anyone but yourself and not one thing more than riches and the pursuit of them. If you truly had a modicum of regard for my brother you would be on a ship at this very moment putting as much distance between as possible between the two of you. As it stands, you are all but signing his death warrant.”

Fumbling with the closure to her breeches and shouldering her braces, Irene rounded the screen, fixing the great lump of the man with a venomous glower.

“I’ve been one of the few things keeping him alive!” she spat, “If you knew what --” Irene caught herself; she’d been nearly ready to reveal Moriarty’s plot and threats. Time for a shift in strategy, Mycroft Holmes knew too well where her trigger points were, she should not be allowing herself to be tricked like a mere school girl.

 “What do you know of love, Mycroft Holmes, scion that you are to a dynasty of emotional cripples?  Poor Sherlock could do worse than be in love with me; I would give him the world, and all its wonders! You would keep him sheltered, and utterly dependent upon that doctor of his! Why aren’t you paying off Watson’s fiancée? Making her disappear? Wouldn’t that better aid your encouragement of their _inversion_?”

It had never occurred to Irene that someone as large as Mycroft Holmes could move so quickly or with such feral grace. He had crossed the distance between them and had her wrist in a vice-like grip in the space of a heartbeat.  She bent backwards in instinctive self preservation as he leaned over her, an almost predatory menace in his every line and feature.

“You will –whatever your business with Moriarty, and yes, I know of your connection – be gone by the end of this day, or I will pursue you to the ends of this earth with such maleficient implacability that you will welcome death as a relief. **_DO_** I make myself clear, madam?!”

Her instinct for self preservation overriding all other concerns, Irene nodded, finding herself landing on her derriere a moment later when he pushed her from him and stalked from the room.

She gasped for breath, inspiration suddenly restored. She released the breath she took with measured slowness, attempting to gather her wits and regain her composure.

Any other day, she’d have called the Yard on the elder Holmes, powerful figure though he might be, created enough of a scandal to at least make life difficult for the man for a fortnight to two.  But she had another threat to neutralize and a job to be done.

And whether Mycroft Holmes believed it or not, it was within her power this date, to preserve the life of his brother. She was going to do her damnedest to accomplish all that was set before her.

***


	7. Fragility: The Dog That Howled in the Night

Fragility Chapter 7: The Dog that Howled in the Night

L.A. Adolf

A return to my Whitehall offices had been demanded as the situation with Blackwood came to a head, the panic created by the attempt on Parliament requiring swift and immediate, albeit covert attention.  While I literally held the government together by my fingernails in those first dreadful moments, I had set my agents to gather intelligence related to brother and his companions.

I had received a report of Blackwood’s dead body being found –appropriately –hanged from the unfinished bascule-suspension bridge structure.  Word of a desperate swordfight with my brother resulting in the accidental death had come to me unofficially some long moments before, and the denouement a clear a set of circumstances beyond the control of any man.  The Devil, apparently had taken his due and unwittingly served justice at the same time.

Sherlock, it seemed, was largely whole, though part of me chafed to see the evidence of it with my own eyes.  Once again, that was no thanks to Adler, who against my advice, had continued on her mission for Moriarty, putting my brother and Doctor Watson once again at peril.  It appeared that she had at least nearly paid with her life, pushed off the unfinished walkway where the battle between Blackwood and my brother had shortly commenced, onto a scaffold below. Considering her flagrant disregard of my advice to her, I could not say that I was able to condemn Blackwood having caused her fall.  Rather, I wished he’d done a better job of it.  In his place, I would have made sure that the next thing that Irene Adler made intimate acquaintance with was the water of the Thames.

My brother, ever chivalrous, had apparently allowed her to escape. 

Preliminary word of mouth had it that someone matching her description had been seen fleeing the scene in the direction of nearest ticketing agent for transatlantic sailing, my assistant was even now tracking passenger manifests for evidence of her, under her own name or her many known aliases.

“Mr. Holmes,” the self same gentleman appeared inside the doorway to my office, “Constable Clark is here to see you.”

I bade my assistant show him in.

Clark, when he entered the office a moment later, seemed more harried than usual, and given the general state of excitement in the streets of London, that was to be understood.  Yet there was an expression in his eye that gave me pause.

“Yes, Clark? What is it?”

“Begging your pardon for the intrusion, but I didn’t want to trust word of this to a third party,” he stated.

I gestured away his apology, “Go on, you bring me word of my brother?”

“Yes sir.  I was one of the first on the scene at the bridge; Mr. Sherlock Holmes was just climbing back onto the walkway where Dr. Watson was already waiting for him. Both were worse for the wear, but holding up as best as could be expected.  We left retrieval of Blackwood for the rest of the men and were on our way down to street level.  I guess the poor doctor had been running on his last reserves, what with his injuries from Nine Elms and all.  If it hadn’t been for Mr. Holmes, your brother, he’d have fallen and broke his neck going down the last flight of stairs.”

 Clark took a breath.

“As it was Watson’s strength gave out, and your brother caught him.  Called him a cab and sent him home to Miss Mary once he was right enough to put up a fuss at being returned to the hospital.”

“And my brother?”  I was gripped a sudden sick feeling roiling my gut.

 “Mr. Holmes had himself a gash in his arm and wasn’t looking any too good as it was, and he’d looked right stricken when the doctor had keeled over.  I turned around from putting the doctor into the hansom and giving the cabbie the direction.  I had a mind to taking Mr. Holmes in hand and seeing him back to Baker Street.  But, he was gone, sir.  I searched the area immediately and thoroughly-- but he was just gone. I sent word to Scotland Yard in case he should show up there, and rushed on over to Baker Street. I waited an hour or two and no sign of him. Not at the Punchbowl or any of the other places.  Mr. Holmes can take care of himself to be sure. But I didn’t like the look of him, or how he was acting, after all that. I’m on my way to take up the search again, but I wanted to report to you, in case you have any ideas or instructions?”

I rang for my assistant, and since the citywide agitation was well on its way to calming in the wake of the resolution of Blackwood situation, transferred further monitoring into his capable hands.

*

We found Sherlock with the help of the Irregulars, not in any of his usual haunts, but collapsed in an alley not far from Baker Street.  Between Clark, the boys and myself we soon had him settled in his bedroom.  I had Mrs. Hudson ring for a doctor I trusted to tend to the wound in his arm, which had bled freely and weakened him, but which was not in any way mortal. The worst risk to his health was from infection, not from the carefully maintained sword cane which had inflicted the cut, but from the filth of the alley where Sherlock had been discovered.

He’d been unconscious when we’d found him, roused only long enough to answer the physician about the infliction of his injury and glare at me balefully, before going insensible again.  No less than Watson the exertions of the last twenty-four hours had weighed on my sibling and the doctor had pronounced a period of uninterrupted rest the best remedy for him before taking his leave. 

I sent Clark upon his way and dispersed the Irregulars---all quite against their will, but I knew that my brother preferred to maintain the fiction of his physical infallibility before those he employed.  Sending word to my office and to my own housekeeper, I settled in to maintain a vigil over Sherlock, until such a time as he was awake and I could assess his state of mind.

I did not count on being so exhausted by the uncharacteristic exertions of my last few days that I soon sank into the arms of Morpheus myself.

*

I would never afterward be able to determine what small noise roused me from my uncomfortable doze, propped upright in a hard backed chair pulled to my brother’s bedside, but Providence must surely be thanked for whatever that sound was. 

My eyes flew open to the dim lamplight that had illumined the dusk I last remembered, and revealed Sherlock’s bed to be empty. Not unusual of itself perhaps, but a feeling of stark terror at the discovery shot through me all the same.  The high pitched howl that erupted from the next room just then shot me up out of the chair and had me almost immediately in the place where I needed to be to preserve my beloved brother’s life.

I lunged forward, grabbing my brother around the legs and supporting his weight, just as the chair he’d been standing on fell away and his full weight would have fallen on the noose about his neck.

I ignored the panicked yelps of the dog Gladstone, who danced about my feet, and bellowed for Mrs. Hudson. The poor woman appeared moments later, dressing gown hastily thrown over her night dress, and between us we were able to release the rope, and ease Sherlock to the tiger rug on the floor before the sitting room hearth.  Constable Clark, who had apparently returned once released from duty for the day and had stationed himself outside 221B, surged up the seventeen steps and into the room not long after.

Once the adrenaline died down, the dog had been calmed, and Mrs. Hudson soothed and escorted to her room by Clark, I allowed myself the singular relief of collapsing against my brother, laying my head against his chest and weeping unashamedly.

My beloved brother, in what should have been a moment of triumph at successful conclusion of a case that had preserved the future of England, had just tried to kill himself, and had very nearly been successful.

***


	8. Fragility: Sufficient Unto The Day

 

It is the most humbling of circumstances to have one’s body fail at the worst possible moment. I had only just reunited with Holmes after his desperate battle with Blackwood, and had been in mid rant wishing him to slow down his progression to street level so that I could get a good look at the gash on his arm, when my own senses swam and I nearly pitched down the stairwell on top of him.  As done in as he was, Holmes caught me, and I found myself being bundled into a hansom and sent to Mary faster than I could regain my wits. 

I had a last look at Holmes, standing beyond Clark, his expression one of utter exhaustion and a kind of forlorn hopelessness.  I would have stopped the cab and turned back, but in that next instant, Holmes was gone, Clark watching the carriage move away and completely oblivious to the detective's abrupt departure.

I don’t know if, as part of his afternoon’s activities Holmes somehow sent an Irregular running ahead of my conveyance, but Mary, and the inlaws were waiting for me, expressions worried and determined. Ansruther had already been summoned, and I was hustled into the house and put to bed before it quite registered with me what had happened. The injuries of the wharf explosion, the pitched battle in the sewers below Parliament, the strain of racing after Holmes and Adler all conspired to completely enervate and prostrate me. Ansruther dosing me with laudanum did not help. I was lost to the world for at least twelve hours.

It was, therefore, well into the day following Blackwood’s death before I could convince my care-takers that I was fit enough to be on my feet. The enforced rest had done me a world of benefit and I had regained my own spirits to the point that when I announced I was off to Baker Street to make sure that Holmes’s arm had been tended to I was met with expressions of concern but no active resistance.

I had been vaguely uneasy in my mind since waking that morning, a feeling that grew as I approached Baker Street. It seemed the closer I came to what would soon be my former home, the more urgency I felt to be there, inside and laying eyes on Holmes. His history of ignoring injuries to the peril of his continued wellbeing would have seemed enough to account for the incipient anxiety, and I chided myself more than once. But my pace increased until I found myself on the stoop of 221B, my hand raised to rap on the door.

I might have let myself in with the key I had not yet surrendered, but it seemed more appropriate, given recent events, to not barge in unannounced. 

I was startled when the door opened before I even had the chance to knock, and Inspector Lestrade and Constable Clark stood in the doorway.  Lestrade had his habitual scowl pasted on his face and was in the middle of an order for Clark to stay put until such time as Mr. Sherlock Holmes could be imposed upon for a full statement of the events on the bridge.  That was not unexpected, but the accompanying look on Clark’s face was a mixture of resignation at the force of his superior’s determination, and an almost sick guilt that not only puzzled, but horrified me.

Lestrade greeted me warmly, asked after my health, then hurried on his way. Clark, in his shirt sleeves, had the look of a whipped dog as he watched Lestrade disappear down the street. He seemed to have trouble meeting my gaze.  A question formed on my lips as I stepped through the doorway and into the foyer, but I did not have a chance to voice it. For in that moment, Mrs. Hudson emerged from the kitchen, looked at me as though seeing a ghost, and dropped the tray she’d been carrying. 

She flinched at the crash of crockery, more severely than seemed warranted, years of enduring Holmes had generally inured her to the sounds of things being violently broken. Clark rushed to her aid, murmuring words of comfort as he dropped down beside her on the floor.  When she looked up at me a moment later, there were tears streaking down her face, and her hands were shaking.

“Mrs. Hudson,” a stern-- albeit sotto voce -- tone preceded the bulky form that was Mycroft Holmes as he emerged from the sitting room above. “I requested peace and quiet--”

Sherlock Holmes’s sibling broke off whatever admonishment he’d been about to deliver to our unfortunate landlady upon seeing me standing at the foot of the stairs.

“Dr. Watson.  Should you be up from your sickbed?”  The elder Holmes inquired almost pleasantly as he descended the first few steps of the stairway. He shifted his attention away from me and towards the tableau below.

 “Constable Clark, would you be so kind as to settle Mrs. Hudson in her room and see to the mess?  I would not ask it of you, but our hostess has had quite enough to deal with already, and I would not task her further.  I will see to Doctor Watson.”

Mycroft Holmes was proving, of late, to be the more aggravating of the Holmes siblings, and my anger flared. The idea of being “seen to” was quite enough. “Now see here, Mr. Holmes, this is still my home, and if anyone is to be seen to--” I surged up to meet him, a tread below where he stood in the stairwell.

“Doctor! If you will do me the courtesy of lowering your voice, and accompanying me into your former consulting room, we can have this conversation in privacy!”

I followed, dumbfounded, as Mycroft led me through an uncommonly tidy sitting room, and through the folding doors into what had been my office, the packing half finished as I’d left it. I wondered vaguely why he’d withdrawn this far into his brother’s and my common rooms; the sitting room would have been far more comfortable a place to hold a conversation, especially one that threatened to be harsh.

He waved me into the room, paused long enough to secure the sliding doors, then rounded on me, fire in his eye and a thundercloud in his expression.

“I entrusted to you the greatest gift I had to give, and look what you have done with it!”  Mycroft erupted, demeanor all the more intimidating for the low tone in which he delivered it.  “And tell me,  do you think your soon to be wife will be so very understanding, when, in the throes of passion it is not her name you call?  Or will you be able to banish him as completely from your thoughts as you take care of your duties, as you have banished him from your life?!”

I was blindsided by the verbal assault, struck cold to the core of my soul by what was revealed in those few fiery sentences.  I had not expected to have my soul flayed open by one so close, so utterly without mercy.

I scrabbled to retain what small composure I could in the face of this unexpected betrayal, horrified both for myself and the man whose life and privacy I held far more dear than my own.

“These matters are private! I will not speak of them with you!” I cried, clenching fists at my sides to keep from striking Sherlock’s only living relative—in that moment I could not have contained myself from delivering a killing blow if I had. “This is not and cannot be any of your business!  Holmes --”

“Tried to hang himself some hours ago. If I had not been here to catch his body as he kicked the chair away from his feet, you’d be mourning a beloved, not attempting to declaim the purity of your relationship with him.”

I felt the blood drain from my face, felt my heart drop and shatter upon the hard lump of my gut.  I staggered back a few steps, and sat down hard on the lone chair in the room—I would have collapsed to the floor had I not been so fortunate as to be standing so near it.

Horrible images flashed before my eyes, nightmare reflections of reality that I recognized from my drugged sleep the night before. I had not remembered them until now, my conscious mind blocking the memory of half waking in the darkness, unable to breathe…

I leapt up from the chair and had my hands on the doors preparatory to throwing them open when I was seized from behind and forcibly restrained by Mycroft Holmes.  In the agitated emotional and compromised physical state I was in, I was no match for his strength, yet I fought.

“I **_must_**_ see_ him!  For the love of God!” I am not ashamed to say I whimpered, so unmanned was I by the terrible news.  “_Please_…”

“Why?” Mycroft held me tighter, pinning my arms to my sides. The question was posed with stern forthrightness; I would have answered any question, no matter how nonsensical, if it would buy me the freedom to go to my beloved.

“I **_love_** him! I _must_ know… I must _go to him_…”  I begged openly.

“I’ve drugged him insensible. Aside from his arm, which has been tended to, he is not injured. When he awakens, hours from now, I can but hope that the black mood will have passed. I will not have him disturbed, or his emotions further excited. I will let you see him, but you will not attempt to wake him, nor will you indulge in any further histrionics, or I shall throw you out into the street and have the door barred against your return.”

I nodded, and the arms that had been like steel bands around me loosened and let go.  I have no memory of opening the pocket doors or crossing the sitting room, the next thing I was aware of was standing in the semi darkness of Holmes’ bedroom.

The figure in the bed was the stuff of my nightmares. Sherlock Holmes lay supine, covered to mid-chest by the bedclothes, hands folded over his breast in a position more associated with a corpse laid out for viewing,calculated to give the impression of being at peace.

 He was ghastly pale, unnaturally still for one so normally always in motion, dark lashes fanning over dark smudges beneath his eyes. His features, even for one so deeply aenesthetized were drawn and haunted.  And faint, but blazingly evident to one such as myself who had made a lifelong habit of observing every small nuance and change in this one being, was a reddish chafing about his neck even now giving way to subtle bruising.

I wanted nothing more than to throw myself down next to him and gather him in my arms, and had I thought it would have had any benefit to his present condition I would have done so, regardless of Mycroft’s threats.  But instead, I bent carefully over him, smoothing down the still wild hair, tracing the fingertips of my good right hand feather light down the side of his face.  I allowed my touch to skim his shoulder, follow the line of his arm, until my hand rested over his.

He could never tolerate this while awake, the intimate touches I had so wanted to share with him for so long.  Ever had it been that I had to be stealthful to physically worship him as I ached to. 

For years I’d had to be content with the occasional arm in arm strolls; touching hands to forearms, shoulders or backs; sitting thigh by thigh in the confines of cabs and carriages;  his head against my shoulder, dozing in prison yards.

 And it _had_ been enough.

I  had never been able to convince him that I could bear never acting on the physicality of my desire for him, that being this close would more than suffice, if he could stand no more.

As much as he wanted me to stay, he pushed at me to go, to live the life he thought I deserved, always wanting what he felt was best for me.

Mycroft was right. Mary would always be second best, the consolation prize exchanged for what -- who -- I really wanted, soft curves standing surrogate for hard, lean planes and angles.

I bent over, and placed the lightest of kisses on my beloved’s face, on each closed eyelid, then finally on the soft full lips.

Then I straightened, and sick unto my soul, reeled out of the room.

Had I not been so devastated, I might have marveled at the gentleness of the strong hands that caught me, urged me to the settee and pressed me down onto it. As it was I was barely aware of the brandy snifter urged to my lips until the fiery liquid burned its way down my throat.

I could not care that Mycroft was looking at me with compassion and a great sadness. I could not care about much at all. Except that the love of my life had tried to end his life, and I had not been the one to save him.

***


	9. Heart's Wounds

_Note: England and Wales retained laws criminalizing suicide (considered a felony) until 1961. _

  

“I suppose,” I began, “that knowing what you know now of my brother’s recent actions, you will have him remanded to Scotland Yard for the felonious act of attempting to take his own life.”

Watson immediately lost what little color he had regained in the moments since he’d fled from Sherlock’s side.

“Good God!” came the vehement retort, “Of course not!”

“Or see him committed to Bedlam?  To languish amongst others sharing his mental instability?”

The good doctor went from pale to apoplectic in the space of mere seconds. He made as if to surge upward from the settee, but the cumulative effects of recent events, and the last few minutes in particular, saw that effort dead a-borning.

“_Mycroft Holmes_!”  Watson would have shouted, I am sure, but remembered at the last moment that it would be disastrous to the sleeping man in the next room if he did so. “If you do not shut the _fuck _up– I will be forced to violence. Deadly violence, as I stand before God!”

He took a deep breath, then continued without waiting for my reaction or input.

“I would no more subject Holmes to either of those two possibilities than I would tear out my own heart. In fact, to even consider either would be to do just that.  I am desolate sir—completely and utterly destroyed, what _more _do you want of me?!”

I leaned back in my brother’s favorite chair.

I had my answer.

“Nothing, Doctor.  Forgive me. I had to know your heart,” I responded neither harshly, nor with condescension.  “I know that of my brother, I have been its sole guardian for great stretches of his life. Yours however has remained so deeply hidden as to remain a mystery to me.”

Watson seemed to fold in upon himself somewhat, his wretchedness a tangible third presence in the room.  I knew of no way to treat such grievous wounds, except to cauterize them, so I pressed forward.  I asked nothing I did not need—almost desperately -- to know.

“Can you not find a solution to what creates the barrier between you? Learn to live like priests and monks do?  Find your satisfaction elsewhere, yet return to him for what he **can** give?”

The doctor heaved a sigh, expelled air that seemed to have to force itself from constricted lungs and a tight throat. “Do you not think I have done so?  Do I give the impression to even such a casual acquaintance that I am a man so controlled by base desires that I cannot make accommodations? I have done so. For _YEARS_.”  Sharp blue eyes clouded with emotion, then glistened with unshed tears.  “No, I don’t suppose you have considered or felt it possible. You don’t truly know me. You have no idea of what I have done or relinquished in the past for the sake of love.”  He swallowed convulsively, as though by so simple an act he could force down his emotions.

“And before you ask, the Labouchere Amendment means nothing to me, he continued.  “ I don’t care a whit for the standards that proper society may demand. I have never considered the act of loving someone, regardless of gender to be any kind of sin.  It has ever and always been enough for me, to be near him, to share in his successes and failures, his  joys and heartbreak.”

“Then why, precisely are you marrying Miss Morstan?  And why now?  What has changed? Why is your mere presence in his orbit no longer adequate to your needs?”

Watson rose off the settee then, turning as though about to go into my brother’s bedroom again, but resolutely turning in the opposite direction, moving to the window that looked down on Baker Street. He stood silent for a long moment, expression morose. 

“Can you understand the utter torment of knowing that the very nearness that you find nourishing and life giving causes pain to another? That by being in his ‘orbit’ as you call it, sharing the same space and life, you take a ringside seat to the devastating toll that same propinquity takes on your beloved?  The cost in drug abuse, physical deprivation, self violence? Do you not think that in the end removing yourself from his proximity might be the best answer and the only one which might conceivably give him relief?  That if you place some distance between you and regulate how often you come near, that perhaps the abuse of self and psyche will diminish?”

 

“Last night’s events prove that supposition incorrect doctor, as you must now see.”

“Today I do.  With all my heart and soul, I see the error I’ve made and I know that I can never rectify it.  The damage is heinous and it is done.  I would give anything to know and understand what to do next, that would surmount the original difficulty, and ameliorate the current harm.”

Watson spun around then, his features showcasing his own anguish.

“I would do _any _thing, pay _any _price, to restore my beloved. To heal all his hurts and make him whole.  But I don’t know what I am to do.  Being with him causes him misery, removing myself causes more. Reduced contact offers no balm.  A clean break could only be apocalyptic.  Tell me Mycroft, what is it that I _am to do_?  I will be most happy to do it, whatever it may be!”

I met the doctor’s eyes.

I was the one in Whitehall to whom everyone else came for solutions, my particular talent that of  able to draw together disparate facts and weave them into a cohesive tapestry of action. I had been doing my best to offer the same assistance to my brother through out his life.  I now saw that Doctor Watson, no less than myself, had spent much of his last few years, doing the best that he could to support and protect my sibling, no less valiant an effort than my own.

My brother had, while still very young, chosen the life of the aesthete—all human needs and desires sublimated to the focus and sharpening of the mind, the senses, the intellect.  Such dedication and sacrifice had helped him to make his way in the world, made him the extraordinary being he was today.

All  this --given without expectation of reciprocation-- had served him well. Until the day he’d had both the blessing and curse of meeting the man who now stood before me, his own heart shattered, possibly beyond any hope of repair.

We all have _le grande passion_ in our lifetimes—if we live at all.  Sometimes a person, other times  a cause, a call to duty, a vocation, an avocation. We are helpless before the power it has over us and once encountered and enmeshed, our lives can never be the same.

Sherlock had thought _idée fixe_ was justice.

The greatest tragedy of all I now realized, was that he been wrong. Justice and her pursuit were merely the placeholders, the means to the end that was Doctor John Hamish Watson. 

Only my brother could rectify that error and affect his own salvation.

We did not know it then, but it would take three years, two deaths and  one resurrection to bring it about.

***

 


	10. Epilogue

Fragility:

 An Epilogue

L.A.Adolf

We had decided between us that  the desperate actions to which Holmes had been driven in the middle of what should have been a triumphal night, were never to be spoken of.  Neither his brother or myself would ever confront him about his attempt at self immolation.

I stayed nearby  the better part of that day, even sitting at my beloved’s bedside, as he slept on in drug induced lethargy.  Convinced he could not hear me, even though I remembered dim sounds that had reached my own consciousness while in a similar state, I spoke my heart to him in calm and soothing tones.  He never once roused, nor did his vital signs give any indication that he might be dissembling.

Mycroft allowed his brother to set the tone after he awakened, finally, late in the evening of the second day.  His equilibrium seemed, as Mycroft later reported to me, somewhat restored by the period of enforced respite.  If he found the fact that his elder sibling moved temporarily into 221B and that Clark and Mrs. Hudson hovered near, quietly solicitous, he did not remark upon it.

The arrival of a jeweler’s box in which was found the most astonishingly huge engagement ring, finally precipitated what was to be my final visit to 221B Baker Street for some time to come.  It had come with a note, scrawled in Holmes’s  familiar hand.

_In repayment for what was lost.  _

It was signed, simply:  “S. Holmes”

Mary had insisted we call upon Holmes and thank him for the generous gift,  and with Mycroft’s assurance that Holmes had been on his own for several days and on a seeming even keel, I agreed.  I had arranged for the last of my belongings to be removed from the premises, and as we approached the front stoop of my former home, we were greeted by the cartman, already hard at work.

Walking into the sitting room, with Mary close behind, I will never forget being greeted by the ghastly sight of Holmes as he must have looked when his brother had lunged forward to preserve his life not that many days past.  For one unholy moment I was in stark terror that he had finished the job he had begun that night, I will ever after wonder that my heart withstood the shock of it.

Mary was at my elbow and even if the worst had come to pass, I could not fall to pieces in front of her, Reason seemed to assert itself, the body suspended from the ceiling was not quite –right – for a genuinely hanged man.

I prodded Holmes awake with my cane and proceeded to make him pay by the only means available----- the bite of my tongue and wit--for the macabre theatrical spectacle before us.  I covered my anxiety with sarcasm and forced normality as he made a dramatic performance out of tying together the last remaining threads of the Blackwood case.

I was rethinking my position of leaving Gladstone with Holmes instead of removing him to my new domicile, when the great beast bolted—no doubt confused from his near escape from “mad honey disease”. 

Constable Clark entered with a summons from Lestrade and the transformation  in my world became real and irrevocable. 

A dead policeman, a missing part to a damnable machine, a case reopened.

A case of which I was to be no part.

A few minutes later, I sat on the front steps of 221B, Gladstone clutched in my arms, my gaze firmly affixed to the rapidly retreating figure of Sherlock Holmes, Constable Clark in tow, disappearing into the throng that was Baker Street at this time of day.

“Finished loading your boxes, sir.  I’ll be heading  over to the new place now.  Sorry about the dog almost getting out.”  The cartman said from somewhere above me.

I nodded at him mechanically.

In my arms, Gladstone whined.  Holmes was  gone from my sight and his and the sad look in those canine eyes seemed to me to be half accusing.

 _“Aren’t you going after him? You **always **go after him!”_

My heart beat heavily in my chest. On the other side of the front door, I heard Mary drawing near, conversing lightly with Mrs. Hudson. Her laugh lyrical and pleasant, and decidedly feminine.

In a few days time, I’d be a married man, grandly ensconced in my own home, my medical practice flourishing, basking in the love of a good and decent woman.  One, who knew, with the perspicacity of the intelligent female, that she was not first in my heart and who accepted being second best with an equanimity I did not deserve.

Holmes was whole, happily on a case, in hot pursuit of a new mystery and focused upon the possibility of new clues and an untouched crime scene.

Everything before me should have insured my contentment, and the knowledge that perhaps, now that the break had been made, it would be the best of all possible solutions to the darkness that had plagued us.

I had everything a man should need and yet I felt empty.  Deeply and utterly bereft.

For I did not have the one thing that would complete my life.

I didn’t have my dearest: Sherlock Holmes.

 

****

_FIN_


End file.
